Meadow of Faults

Hello everyone, today I am bringing a quick fragment of an unwritten story. This story came about Friday afternoon as I sat contently, reading my Napoleon book by Madame Junot when the postman came. He gave me a package, quoth have a nice day, and was off. This was the moment that a peculiar story popped into my head, somewhat inspired by Wuthering Heights, but mainly off of the sudden experience. Please do enjoy, and remember, this would be somewhere in the middle of the book if such a novel existed:

Meadow of Faults

“Mrs. Fendwick, a package for thou, Ma’am,” a dark haired man with weeping eyes and ragged apparel says, pulling forward a small box.

“I am not Mrs. Fendwick, but that of her daughter,”

“Dost thou mother reside here?”

“I fear she resides in a place unreachable by man. Her screams haunt this old glory like that of the man’s face melted to the moon,” the girl says, pushing a lock of auburn hair away with pale fingers.

“Has she died, Ma’am?” The man asks, face falling in bewilderment.

“Nay, yet her fair soul wonders from time to time.”

With wide eyes, the man speaks, patting the miss on the arm and tipping his haggled hat.

“With all due respect, I must be on my way. Do give the mistress my regards.”

“That shan’t be necessary, kind sir, now come hither. I shall tell you of a bird’s call,” the sly girl says, beckoning with a slender finger. “The mistress enjoys a fair soul. I fear she has yet to leave one sane, in whole.”

The man’s dead eyes appear wide as day as he frantically steps back, staring at the girl as if she were a madman.

“Might I ask where thou shall ‘scape to?”

“Methinks thou are quite delirious, Ma’am! I must go call for Mr. Wilkie promptly. You need a doctor, that shall do the trick. Or might I just be losing mind to the wind?”

“There is no such thing wrong with myself, much less thou. It is my late mother, the biscuit-910290_1920mistress, thou should be frightful of,” the girl speaks delicately, standing up with her foreign book in hand.

“Late? Is the mistress not alive as spoken of so lightly?”

“Might it be a shock if I described my mother as late yet wondering hungry and alone? Lad, there is nowhere to ‘scape. When thou o’clock comes anon as mine did, thou shall understand.”

“Ma’am? Ma’-”

With a flash, the atmosphere collapses upon the man’s broken soul. The haggard life sinks apace, the wind knocked out of his being. The fair girl lays her masked book upon his chest, smiling with a tilted head before turning with the lightest air, leaving the young man to die.

With all that starts, all must end. Unless you are soulless, having lost your life centuries before.

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